


Differences of Opinion

by GrumpyBones



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Gratuitous amounts of arguing, M/M, Old Married Couple, Snapshots, eventually, negative amounts of drama, they're in love it's fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 10:15:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19271197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrumpyBones/pseuds/GrumpyBones
Summary: A story about Georgia peaches, the importance of getting the last word, and being in love despite your best intentions.





	Differences of Opinion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BabyWithWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabyWithWings/gifts).



> This is work is part of the Star Trek Pride Fanwork Exchange!
> 
> Prompted by GatewayGeek!
> 
> Hopefully it lives up to the prompt <3 My first Spones fic!

 

 

Together they have survived several ends of the world, traveled through death and back as one, and lived more lives than any one being should rightly get. But give them a peach and the time to speak of it and things could easily escalate.

 

* * *

_**Then** _

* * *

  

The first had been only moments after Spock finally found his nerve by way of Jim Kirk.

“You think he doesn’t like you?” His Captain had asked, the accompanying look of surprise on his face brought with it a small resource of reassurance.

“I did not say that,” was Spock’s reply, coming to the vague understanding of why Jim had always insisted that he simply enjoyed making things difficult.

“Fine. You’re concerned that Bones, ‘may only tolerate your company under the guise of friendship because of your mutual relationship ties’?” The smile on Jim’s face was one of disbelief, cutting off at the end with a teasing smirk as he added, “Did I get that right?”

Spock suddenly, thoroughly, did not want to be having this conversation anymore. “You have sufficiently quoted me.”

A hand came up to squeeze his shoulder, the human’s face morphing into something that managed to be kind while full of pity, the way one would look at a mewling kitten that they had just dredged out of a lake.

“The problem isn’t that he doesn’t like you, Spock,” he laughed, turning ahead to stare at the turbo lift doors as if that could hide his clear amusement. Spock now lived only in the corner of his peeking eye when Jim offered, “The problem is how much that he does.”

The Vulcan had been taken aback, just slightly, by the revelation as he worked through the process of acceptance, mistrust falling slowly to the validity of facts. The Captain knew Leonard better than anyone else on the ship did, and while he had nothing to gain by lying, which would be fairly out of character to begin with, he also had much to lose in the way of Dr. McCoy’s wrath should this be a simple human prank. Jim also knew Spock more deeply than anyone else on the ship could claim to. To plainly speak, he was Spock’s friend, and he would not wish to see him unhappy.

At the very least, Spock could safely conclude that Jim’s admission had been an honest one — honest to the extent of what the Captain believed, anyways.

It was with only this knowledge, and what Spock would never admit to be hope, that he found his way to the mess hall and over to where Leonard sat, engaged in a conversation with Ensign Chekov about peaches, a subject which the Vulcan had little opinion on. The Doctor’s efforts were being poured into a debate with the navigator about whether or not the fruit had been “invented” in Russia. They, of course, had not been, but Spock had experienced enough futility in conversations of this manner to know the merits of simply remaining silent as Leonard worked his way to a similar conclusion.

“Well,” the Doctor had said when the ensign’s enthusiasm had finally outran McCoy’s train of facts, “we can at least agree that these replicated miscreations ain’t got nothing to boast about compared to one yanked ripe off a tree limb.”

Chekov, most definitely, did agree, head nodding with the vigor of someone who has just won a race through a denial based determination, all despite a distinct lack of skill.

“I must be misunderstanding you, Doctor. The replicated peaches are programed to be of the same chemical makeup and structure than that of an organically grown one. You should not even be able to detect a difference between the two.” Spock continued despite the growing aura of _unimpressed_ that McCoy was beginning to bathe himself in. “They are, in all ways except origin, the same.”

“I don’t know about the Vulcan grub that thing spits out,” having waved a finger disapprovingly in the vaguest direction of the replicators, impressively missing the angle by only 7° despite his eyes remaining on Spock’s own, “but this,” the once bitten fruit held up, “is a sad excuse for the best Georgia has to offer.”

“Yet you continue to order them.”

“What? Your species doesn’t believe in the concept of, ‘Better this than nothing,’?” A pleasing smirk had pulled Leonard’s mouth up to one side as he spoke while he continued to play with his food.

“Not when more nutritionally sound options are available, no,” was his honest reply, the Doctor’s response coming in the tune of a snort and the exaggerated display of an eyeroll. “Only one of those fruits contains nearly a fourth of the sugar a human male of your size should consume in a day, while not equally compensating in a beneficial way.”

“And what about pleasure, Mr. Spock? What about _joy,_ happiness? Are those not as important as vitamins? As a medical man, I’d argue that yes, they are. The cornerstone to wellness isn’t repression, but a healthy dose of moderation,” blue eyes stared Spock down as the accompanying smile grew until McCoy’s cheeks rose to the point that his lips were forced to part in a toothy, self-pleased, grin. “It’s too bad, Vulcan, I think a fella like you deserves a little sweetness in his life.”

Spock would never really be able to say whether it was the enticing look on the Doctor’s face or the surrealty of the conversation as a whole, or perhaps just his own exhaustion over their years’ long game of back and forth between them, but something not totally of himself had bared down around him. He had found himself suddenly asking, “Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow, Leonard?”

McCoy had simply looked confused, eyes jumping between Spock’s and, momentarily, to Chekov’s whose disbelief the Vulcan could read even where it resided in his peripheral vision.

“Dinner?” He finally replied, “We’re having dinner right now, you nut.”

The following moments of silence had possibly echoed inside of him worse than a rejection ever could have.

“I zink,” the ensign offered, timidly, “zat Mr. Spock vould like to have dinner vith you alone, Doctor.” Adding, with emphasis, “ _Just_ the tvo ov you.”

Blue eyes grew wide as they jumped back to Spock’s, tempering quickly at whatever sight the Vulcan’s face had put on display. “Oh now? Is that true, _Mr. Spock_?” having looked far too smug for the First Officer’s comfort.

“If you could ever be such a thing as amenable.”

Leonard’s laugh shook out of him the way that it always had, full and sudden, with the ease of someone who cares not who hears it.

“I’m amenable, alright, unjustly so at times,” he leaned forward in his seat, peach still perched between his fingers. “But are _you?”_

“I do not—”

“You ever eat a peach before, Spock?”

On nothing but faith that this would circle around to an answer faster if he participated Spock had replied, “No, I have not.”

Leonard snapped back in his seat in horribly feigned surprise, “Well that just _won’t do_ , now will it? A Georgian man like myself in cahoots with someone who has never sampled our pride and joy,” he held out the fruit once again, waggling it slightly in front of Spock’s face. “I’ll make you a deal, like the generous man that I am: I’ll be ready tomorrow at six sharp, with ribbons in my hair, if _you_ can make a snack out of that and tell me that it ain’t the most delicious thing your tongue’s ever made acquaintance with.” Spock only realizes that his hand had risen on its own accord when the Doctor deposited the peach into it.

He looked down at the fruit in his hand, feeling the odd fuzzy texture of the skin against his own, before his eyes scanned the arrogant, and excitable, face of Leonard McCoy once more. Finding that making a point somehow, instantly, prioritized over pride.

His teeth sunk into the peach, centimeters away from where the Doctor’s had gouged it.

Spock chewed it, slowly, wearing a neutral mask as Leonard’s grin was only outranked by Chekov’s horror. The Vulcan held it up, pretending to inspect what was left of it, before offering it back to its owner’s waiting hand.

“It is not,” he said, honestly. “I believe you said six, Leonard?”

The human before him had finally given up the fight, losing himself to a soft round of incredulous, yet pleased, chuckles as the Vulcan moved to stand, his business there done.

“We’ll find you a peach you like yet, Vulcan,” he promised, eyebrow raised in an offer that had Spock fighting a flush as he turned to leave. “And remember, Spock,” leaning over the table once again, head tilted up towards him at what must have been an uncomfortable angle, though you could never have known by the satisfied smirk which had made its triumphant return, “being late for the ball is only cute in fairytales.”

“I shall take your word for it,” Spock had managed before finally leaving, feeling as green as the Russian was pink.

 

* * *

 

It had been months after their traumatization of Ensign Chekov, who had seemed to have fully recovered in the time since, when the second row happened.

A shore leave had brought them to a farmers market on a day Leonard had compared to, “The first actual day of spring. Not the first nice day, not the one the tricks you into leaving your coat in the closet just to curl back into winter by the 5 O'Clock news. And not the second one either, the one that comes a week later and is rightly beautiful but only leaves you pining for the sun on your face when the damn thing gets shy again. No, the first _real_ day of spring. The one that warms you up so much even your toes feel cozy.”

Since his first romantic-natured request of Leonard’s time, Spock had only confirmed what he had already known: that the best way to remain in good graces with the Doctor was to know when to ask questions and when to not. This had been decidedly another example of things that were safer in the, “I shall take your word for it,” category.

He was still waiting for McCoy’s reply, expecting something along his usual lines of, _‘You better not be standing there thinking I’m too far up my own ass to know what you’re really meaning when you say that,’_ when the force of a sudden reaction from his partner had managed to rattle Spock despite the bright, pleased, tone of the noise. Leonard had tugged away from his arm, chasing the source of his delight, and it had been easy enough to plot his trajectory to a handwritten sign proclaiming: ‘Unreplicated Peaches for Sale!’

“These fruits are the cause of your distress?” Spock has teased, raising his eyebrow and mouth corner in unison.

Though, when the good Doctor turned to him, his word choice seemed to hit more accurately than intended. “ _Peaches_? A Georgian doesn’t see a real peach for the first time in 6 months and get _distressed_ , dearest,” the term dripping with his usual level of sarcasm, somehow always managing to sound sincere in spite of his thorough intentions. “However, he may get a boil going in his blood when he _thinks_ he’s about to see a real peach for the first time in 6 months only to find the woman behind the cart peddling nectarines!” Having brought along with them, apparently, his best impression of an irritated guard dog. The Andorian woman, at least, seemed to have dealt with worse if her neutral responding expression told an accurate story.

Leonard had already gone by the time that Spock had confirmed that the actual sought after fruit would not be found on their current planet, her answer believable as her eyes continued to timidly map the course of McCoy’s indignant departure over Spock’s left shoulder. The Vulcan had found himself in dire possibility of chuckling when he finally caught up to the Doctor who was, indeed, sulking quite fiercely on a bench.

Spock held out one of the insulting fruits to the sound of a scoff, “The difference between these and the peaches you seek are negligible, merely a variance of expression in an allele resulting in mostly textural contrasts,” McCoy, unsurprisingly, still refused to take it. “Some have claimed nectarines to not only be more aromatic but also _juicier_ ,” Spock had tried, and failed, not to cringe at the word.

“Who said that?” The human’s arms had abruptly unfolded from his chest as his attention swept to Spock’s face. “They sound like a lying scoundrel who needs to be on the wrong end of a good talking to from someone who actually knows something.”

“If I see them, I shall tell them to book an appointment.” Spock’s chin had gently jutted out to gesture towards the still offered fruit.

Leonard relented and took it with a harsh grab before eating it the way a human child ingests medicine: _dramatically._

“You’re damn fucking lucky that I love you, you know.”

This had been a fact between them for some time by then, though known in the way that one knows how to breathe; having been left unspoken for reasons that Spock had never quite understood. McCoy seemed to realize this in the next moment, his jaw moving slower around the sweet fruit in his mouth as they both waited for Spock to sift out his response from the remnants of what his expectations had been.

“Yes,” he announced, finally. “I find that I am.”

Leonard had pretended not to smile, looking away long enough, at enough of an angle, in an attempt to school it back to a line of mere contentment without Spock’s audience. Upon the proper remodeling of his expression, McCoy had been quick to give him a once over, the journey ending in a lock of their eyes from opposite ends of the bench.

“Spring looks good on you, green bean.”

“Your appearance is also quite satisfying.”

“Satisfying,” the doctor had huffed with yet another roll of his eyes. “All those sonnets he reads and the best he can come up with is, ‘Satisfying,’” grin growing, obviously despite his best efforts as he forced his tone sharper. “You _could_ say it back, you know.”

Spock took his first bite of the nectarine in his hand, trying desperately to appear as if he was enjoying it far more than he actually was, if all for the sake of his beloved’s annoyance.

Though he granted upon swallowing, “Taluhk nash-veh k’dular.”

Another scoff, a brighter smile, and a gruff, “ _Bless you,_ I think,” as the human’s hand moved just enough so that their fingers would overlapped on the wood between them.

 

* * *

 

The next had not been their third dispute regarding stone fruits, that title had come prior and gone with the passing of a disconcertingly short amount of time. Though the third one _worth mentioning_ had years to wait before its arrival, sparking in the completion of an era, as they lived out the last few pages of their storied five year mission. The Enterprise’s assignments had begun displaying a pattern, leading them ever nearer to the ship’s place of origin as the date on the calendar grew closer, to the dismay of many whose futures were still left to unknowns.

Leonard and Spock had both managed to avoid the topic while appearing as though they were not doing so, though the Vulcan was left to deduce that duplicated results were most likely the outcome of twin efforts.

_Tense_ was not an inaccurate word to describe their interactions as the ship steered towards Earth for a simple ceremony. They would only be docked for a week’s time, at maximum, but the affair held with it the shadow of what was to quickly come: The end. Or, at least, a pause as the ship would remain on Terra to undergo a massive refitting before its next cast off, if they would even both be aboard for the event.

Spock knew, of course, that to not speak of something would not cause a shift in its existence, that whatever the inevitable decision to be made would be, would continue to be regardless of his choosing to acknowledge it. Yet still, it was far more pleasing to listen to McCoy’s happy chatter about Joanna, who was currently a medical track student at the academy. It had been too long since his beloved had been within natural sight of her and Spock was contented for them, more than willing to save the possibly less than pleasant conversations until after there was no longer an awaited moment to spoil.

It was day three of their leave when Spock was making his way back to the temporary apartment that him and his Leonard were currently sharing, a bag in hand. A sympathetic ache inside of Spock had only grown for the McCoys, no less in intensity than pains of his own. He had begun to wish, irrationally, more so with each day ticked off, that someone could be in two places at once. As of yet, no progress had been made on that scientific front and so the Doctor had logically been dedicating the vast majority of his time to be with Joanna, and therefore, Spock had been wholly prepared to walk into an empty flat.

Only he had been greeted instead by the sight of McCoy at the table, chair angled towards the door with his hands awkwardly shoved into the pockets of a coat it was too warm to be wearing.

Spock’s, “I have purchased you something,” had coincided perfectly with Leonard’s, “I think we should talk.”

It was as soft of a start to a possibly painful conversation as any being could hope for.

Spock had nodded as he finally found his reply, “You wish to stay on Earth, with your daughter.”

The human’s face went through several extremes before landing on confusion, followed by a kind of sympathy that was hard to bear. “God, you really do love to live with a toe in the darkness,” shaking his head. “No, sweetheart. She’ll be flinging around the stars herself in a minute, our chance for that had come and gone a while ago.”

“It does not have to be that way. We could wait for her assignment and —”

He was silenced by a hand wave.

“This conversation ain’t about her. I want to talk about _us,_ ” the hand moved to gesture towards the chair opposite of the Doctor’s. “Jesus, don’t just stand there looking like you’re about to go runner on me. Sit,” Spock, reluctantly, did, depositing the bag on the laminate surface between them. “I told her about you.”

“I was under the impression that your daughter was made aware of our relationship several years ago,” as he stared somewhere south of McCoy’s face. “I have been involved in several of your video communications with her.”

“I know, Spock, I know. That’s not what I mean,” one hand freeing its way from the jacket to scrub across his eyes with a sigh, “God, am I making a mess of this muck. I’m not sure who I thought we were, trying to do this normal,” huffing out a small laugh, though at whose expense it was at, Spock hadn’t been sure. When Leonard’s face finally emerged from his palm it dipped, forcing himself into the Vulcan’s eyeline. Stating, in a much simpler tone, “I have something for you too, but _you_ have to decide if you want it.”

Spock had waited, a breath, for a clarification that did not immediately come. Pushing, finally, when anticipation grew stronger than his patience, “I do not understand.”

“You will,” had been offered reassuringly as the human rose to his feet before making his way around the minuscule table. He held out his hand, palm up, towards Spock upon reaching him. “Surgeon’s hands,” he mused, like a distraction, “still got ‘em.”

Considering the drag that had been in his feet, and the fright that had still lived in his expression, the Vulcan, admittedly, had been impressed as he laid his own steady hand on top of Leonard’s. The false appearance of stability in the Doctor's limbs, he reasoned, most likely came at the same cost of effort as his own. McCoy’s left hand held his, simply, for a moment before jumping away to tug at his right one, pulling off the ring he had long worn on his smallest finger. He held it up, a bit of a shake working into his muscles finally, as he presented the object to Spock.

“You don’t actually have to wear this if you don’t want,” as he placed the jewelry in Spock’s still open palm, sandwiching it between his own crushing grip, “We can get you your own, or hell, don’t wear one at all. I couldn’t care less. We can tell people, or not, that doesn’t matter much to me either —”

“Yes,” he replied, Spock’s voice shockingly level for the state of his heartbeat.

“Now listen, I’m not done. I’m sure this is all a little silly sounding to a Vulcan but it matters to me, for all the right reasons, not because of what anyone thinks. Anyone with an opinion can go find a horse’s ass to stick it to —”

“ _Yes,”_ Spock tried again, more firmly.

“God didn’t give you those fancy ears just to look pretty, I need you to listen to me. I don’t have a blind bat’s clue where the hell we’re headed next but I know that wherever I’m going, I want you there,” Spock had nodded, hoping a visual aid would help where audible ones had failed. “And I’d get down on one knee if any of my joints were worth a new nickle but —”

“Leonard McCoy, if you could be done, I think now would be an appropriate time to put my ring on.”

Disbelief had captained the Doctor’s expression for a breath before a rare moment of unabridged joy took over, his fingers snapping away to watch in what looked like shock as Spock slipped it on, only for them both to fail at hiding their smirks at the terrible fit.

“Well, that, at least, is fixable,” McCoy had joked, his eyes still unusually bright, as he continued to stare at Spock’s left hand.

“Do you believe something to not be?”

“Yeah,” he had snorted back, “your terrible taste in men,” the look on his face had said, more than words could, that there was something more on his mind. Spock waited, fingers reaching out to find Leonard’s again. “It ain’t just this, you know,” as he gestured vaguely to the hand in his own. “I want to… we should,” finger drawing a line between their two temples.

“When you are ready, k’diwa.”

“I am,” though Spock’s uncertainty had been strong enough to perhaps feel even without a bond. “ _I am_. I have been. I have been for awhile. I just, I thought I was last time, with Joanna’s mom and that ended like a train full of dynamite hitting a wall,” his hands squeezed against Spock’s. “I know I’m not that kid desperately searching for a dream anymore.” A scoff followed, harsh and loud compared the gentleness that had just ruled his voice. “If I was I wouldn’t be shackling myself to such a damn nightmare.”

McCoy’s voice has been light enough that Spock had teased back, “I am, of course, inundated with my own doubts about you.”

The doctor had nearly cackled, Leonard’s hand pulling away to cover his mouth as the shocking sound had ripped a hole in the quiet shelter that they had only just built. Spock had watched, allowing one of his more honest smiles to bloom at the sight of the pressed shut eyes and pinkening cheeks, which did nothing to aid in the matter of Leonard catching his breath. Though the laughter did, eventually, simmer back down to a chuckle. The human’s chest was still slightly heaving when McCoy’s eyes found focus on the brown paper bag that Spock had placed on the table upon taking his seating, nearly forgotten.

“Did I hear something about a present earlier?”

Spock nodded, gesturing for Leonard to help himself to it, waiting until the human was peeking inside at the contents before explaining, “I had radioed the order ahead when I heard we were coming back to Earth. After our inability to acquire them on our last trip to San Francisco I thought it was unlikely to happen upon them. I have been assured of their source and, at the cost of shipping, I do hope they live up to your insisted expectations.”

Leonard merely stared back at him, two peaches in hand. “These are from Georgia?”

Spock did his best to look confident, “I have been _told_ that they are.”

The human continued to stare at them, an emotion not unlike awe on his face, and Spock took the time to be grateful for a soulmate so willing to be affected after all they had seen. One of the fruits was held out to him after a moment had passed, the Vulcan taking it quickly as McCoy’s teeth sunk into the second to the tune of a lewd noise.

“ _Oh God, Spock,”_ in a tone that left Spock instantly wishing for thicker walls, “they did you right on these,” as he eyed the one which had sat, intact, in the Vulcan’s hand. “What, are you shy suddenly? Go on, try it.”

Spock, warily, raised it for a bite. His face remained, telling, neutral.

“No!” McCoy had cried out, instantly. “You think those dry as a desert California ones are just as good as this piece of ripe Heaven?” Spock, truly, had tried not to look guilty as his just made fiance’s face had fallen. “The nectarines too?!” In a tone that would be considered dramatic, even for a human, in use at a gravesite.

“I find them both to be adequate in taste and insubstantially nutritious —”

“Don’t you dare go telling me that your green blooded taste buds have you believing that those replicated imposters, made of fuel waste and the disappointment of those eating it, even compare to the slice of Eden tickling your Vulcan tongue.”

Spock had no choice but to remain silent as he attempted to form an escape plan. Finally coming up with a meager, “Your lack of knowledge on the workings of replicators is rectifiable if you are interested —”

The peach was snatched from his hands with a disapproving look and a mumbled, “You don’t deserve her.”

“As I was saying, I find it to be _more than_ ,” he stretched, “satisfactory.”

"Georgia peaches,” as Leonard began his tried and true assault, a series of pointer finger jabs to the chest. It had been, as it always was, a sure sign of Spock’s impending demise, if only in the sense that it was a clear announcement of logic’s termination from this place, “are the best damn thing to happen to humanity since the invention of the opposable thumb.”

Spock certainly found that to be a questionable statement, though not being of said species, perhaps, he would be allowed to deem himself an unworthy judge. His case of, “I shall take your word for it,” had been just barely been filed, Leonard’s face in the earliest stages of irate, when the Doctor’s communicator had sounded from the other room. Spock’s eyebrows raised in innocence as McCoy’s eyes squinted, assessingly.

“I’m not finished with you yet,” finger leaving his sternum with a final poke.

The walls, indeed, had been thin enough to hear through.

“I have terrible news,” followed by a brisker, “No, no, sweetie, he said yes. He had some Georgia peaches flown in for us,” voice plummeting to the throat, “ _The problem_ is that he thinks that replicated ones are just as good!” and the madness of his beloved peaked with an exasperated, “Of course I’m in love with him! That isn’t the point!”

The Vulcan had remained in the kitchen, spinning the ring on his finger, its presence was a feeling that he would need to get used to. He stared at the gold, at the intermingling of their belongings due to the Doctor’s haphazard unpacking, at the origin of the dismay coming from the bedroom where it sat on the counter opposite of him, barely eaten.

His mother had accepted the video communication almost instantly.

“Spock! I was just about to call you, I felt a shift on your end of the bond. A pleasant one, no?” She asked, a smile already on her face.

“I have news,” continuing after she had nodded, “Leonard has proposed marriage and I have accepted,” knowing that his eyes could give away his delight to his mother, he had allowed them to do so.

“Oh, love. That is —”

She had cut herself off upon hearing the not quite faint enough to be ignored, “Oh I’m still going to marry the idiot, but God Joanna, at what cost?!” resounding from the source of her son’s contentment from the other side of the still closed door.

“Also,” Spock began again, “I can now say, with confidence, that I do not like peaches.”

 

* * *

 

It had been far beyond the fourth argument about prunuses by the time of their bonding-wedding celebration.

An occasion at which Spock had, generously, taken a bite of a something horrifically called, ‘Peach Cobbler _Dump_ Cake,’ and had, graciously, refused a second one. Spock’s just-pronounced husband had accused him of being rude to the baker, all to the sound of Lieutenant Sulu’s adamant refutation, while McCoy wore the smile he reserved only for the arguments he was sure of winning. The Vulcan had gone to defend himself when the cake on Leonard’s plate was suddenly in the Doctor’s hand before, swiftly, being shoved at the vague target of Spock’s open mouth.

He had stood there, gaping, as Leonard’s howling was joined by spots of laughter, his own mother betraying him with a chuckle poorly hidden behind her hand.

“I always did say you looked like a thick slice of dessert,” his bondmate had teased, daring his way back towards Spock as the Vulcan attempted to wipe the custard from his own cheek.

“As always, ashayam,” Leonard’s face softening at the publicized endearment, “I shall take your word for it.”

Spock had bided his time, waiting for McCoy’s face to morph into the realm of remorse, as he reached towards a nearby table for a cloth, his, “I suppose I ought to clean you up—” cut off by the Vulcan’s cake filled hand slapping gently across the side of his face.

The human had simply sputtered at him as Spock had finally replied, “I think I have finally found a suitable use for peaches.”

There had been another bark of laughter, and what may have been a growl though the following, “I’ll show you suitable,” had been playful.

Leonard had grabbed the front of his robes, pulling him into a fierce human kiss, syrup sweet mouths clashing together as the Doctor’s still sticky fingers worked into his hair. Spock had blushed furiously, hiding his flushed cheeks against McCoy’s cake smudged one as Leonard had whispered, “I think we ought to go talk about a shower,” in a tone that made it clear that bathing would not be the event’s main concern. Though not totally familiarized with the traditions of Earth weddings, Spock was fairly sure that the guests of honor were not supposed to leave a mere fifteen minutes in. That fact, while left undisputed, had not stopped his husband from all but dragging him out of the room.

The phrase, “ _paradigm of peach hostilities,”_ had been coined, delightedly, by their then Captain, Kirk, to describe the event.

Spock had no logical counter argument against the summary.

 

* * *

 

By the time ‘Georgia’ had become a synonym to ‘home’ the incidents had reached well into the thousands.

They had retired from Starfleet earlier than most of their peers, the Doctor longing for a sense of permanence, and Spock was eager to know that his bondmate would live in the safety of a planetary residence.

The Doctor had been the one to find the farm, presenting the idea to Spock the way one offers a favor. His husband would devote the next decade insisting that Spock had been adamantly against the idea, an accusation which was not inherently true. The Vulcan had simply been hesitant, full of legitimate apprehensions, all of which he believed to be more than substantiated. The level of work it would require was considerable for an arthritic human and a Vulcan who had not lived thus far with the desire of spending his retirement picking peaches.

He was a logical being, however, and had agreed to see the place before completely dismissing it, expecting to walk away with enough validated concerns to write a thesis. Instead, his skepticism had been flayed at the sight of it. It was a small, manageable, lot with one decent sized barn made of stained red maple and meager excuse for a house that was in dire need of a fresh coat of paint.

The peach trees on the property could be smelled for the better half of the dirt road that had led them there.

“It’ll be quiet,” Leonard had offered as they sat on what had been aptly called, ‘a porch swing.’ He had still, clearly, been trying to sell the Vulcan on the idea, “We deserve some of that, don’t you think? After the ruckus we’ve been through?”

Spock had not answered right away, too busy in his realization that the house pointed west and that, if they desired to do so, this vantage point would offer a remarkable perspective of the Earth’s sun setting.

“Don’t get me wrong now,” Leoanard began again, “I know it’ll be a lot work and neither of us have been mistaken for a spring chicken in few millennia. But picking time’s only a few months out of the year and there’s only a small platoon of trees out back.” McCoy had weighted his proposal as he continued to stare at the side of Spock’s face, “We could always hire help for the season, if the need comes to be.”

The Vulcan persisted in his silence, undistracted and amused, as he commanded the features of his face to remain a portrait of reluctancy.

“Oh come on,” the human’s voice covering his desperation with the usual mask of irritation. “Look at this house, Spock. Big enough for all those antique books of yours, small enough that I can throw a rock and hit you from any room. It’s perfect, sweetheart,” a pause and a huff, “Try and tell me that it ain’t.”

Turning, finally, Spock looked past him in assessment at the house for a moment before granting his beloved the center spot of his attention, “It will look quite pleasing once we paint it the blue of your eyes.”

There had been a not wholly swallowed stutter, a badly hidden grin and a, “Dammit Spock, it’s a peach farm, not a blueberry one,” that had missed its intended mark of annoyed by several galaxy widths. “Any gorn with half a brain knows that a nice little country homestead like this ought to be yellow,” Leonard stated the way one cites an academic source, with factuality.

“I shall take your word for it,” as his hand moved to cover the soft denim covered thigh beside his own.

“You were probably just itching to get me to offer to paint the thing _olive_.” The human’s hand had found its way on top of his, the skin cool against his own as the Doctor continued to gripe with an ill-matched smile, “I don’t love you _that_ much, Vulcan.”

“I am nearly certain that you do.”

The responding eye roll had been felt as much as seen, “Yeah? Says the nitwit whose about to become a peach farmer when he doesn’t even like them. I’m not sure how long a discerning landowner like myself will be willing to associate with such an _illogical_ individual.”

Spock ignored the baiting, if only because it would annoy his bondmate more not to acknowledge it, responding instead, “Awhile longer, I believe.”

Leonard gruffed, only to hold his hand that much tighter.

The house got bathed in a buttercup yellow, which did, in fact, compliment the sunflowers that they soon after planted. In the summer the air hung a little too humid, though the neighbors were scarce and the stars remained bright.

Spock painted their fence a too bright blue while Leonard was in town one day. A week later the Vulcan came in from the field to find that their shutters had become green in his absence.

 

* * *

  _ **Now**_

* * *

 

Their proximity to the fruit had only been fodder on an already burning flame.

Spock, at any given time during his career, could have provided a roughly accurate estimate of the inventory of nearly any item aboard the Enterprise. The inventory count of shirts provisioned to them, comparing that against the normal retiring rate due to wear and tear, factoring in how many away missions Jim Kirk had been on, and how long it had been since their last resupplying. He could have surmised the sum of individual hair strands, easily calculated by the average number per individual based on species, multiplied by the total crewmembers of each race, and simply added neatly together. The speed of oxygen production in the life support systems vs the median rate of respiration of the crew could have provided the volume of air molecules on the ship at any given moment.

But yet, he had somehow lost track of the sheer occurrences in which they had found reason to bicker about peaches. It was, he decided long ago, an illogical version of emotional foreplay that no Vulcan could be built to understand. Logically, coming to the conclusion that picking his battles was as simple as picking their peaches, better done in silence while allowing oneself to enjoy their surroundings despite the repetitious nature of the act itself.

The Doctor had retired from the orchard several years ago, becoming the farm’s main connection to the market at which they sold their crop. The profit had been negligible in the best of seasons and neither had ever quite managed to care as more and more of their production had been allocated to local schools and charity events, and occasionally, the random passerby.

It had been McCoy’s idea to turn the barn into a retirement community of its own accord, random animals taken from dairy and wool farms when the creatures had grown too old to fulfill their services. The veterinary bills alone had been a black hole in the center of whatever credits were made, though the only comment that had ever been tracked on the matter was Leonard's, “I’d give my left foot just to keep watching you try to pretend those damn goats don't leave you giggling like a schoolgirl. If you keep growing that hair of yours out then I may make you start wearing it in pigtails.”

Spock had given up, at least some of, the pretense awhile ago, “They are quite an illogical species, though I’m sure many would think the same of us.”

“Speak for yourself, I have all the reasons I need to justify my actions,” Leonard had replied, his voice dipping softer as he looked out past the property line to where the sun was melting into the horizon. His following sigh curbed into a clearing of his throat, beating his tone back into his standard irritated annoyance. “Let ‘em shut off the power first and then we’ll talk about ‘cost effectiveness.’”

The situation had never come close to reaching that tier of dire, though Spock had always vaguely wondered if it would have made any difference if it had.

In short, the Vulcan could finally say, even though he would not, that he finally understood all the human poetry dedicated to the concept of, ‘Home.’

On this particular afternoon Spock is only just barely through the door before a dispute insists on beginning. The shift in his own facial muscles is so immediately extreme that it seems to create a series of aftershocks, too violent to wrestle his expression back from what is likely blatant trepidation, as he takes in the sight of the kitchen. While the native Georgian’s sickbay had always been the model of organization, the very picture of methodical cleanliness, living with him had brought to the Vulcan’s life the term, ‘Organized Chaos.’ Spock could draw _several_ direct lines to the latter word of the phrase, evidence of the former still at large.

“Oh, don’t you start with me,” is Leonard’s way of getting the first word.

Spock arrives at the quick decision to make a play at innocence, “I simply did not know that you were going to attempt baking,” adding, after too long of a pause, “again.”

The responding glare in the blue eyes said more than words. “I am a _very_ successful baker and you well know it,” only Spock’s doubt must slip through the bond, if the way McCoy’s expression suddenly exaggerates the firm hold on his stance is worth interpreting. “ _You_ just won’t let go of the scone thing.”

The scone thing, not quite aptly named, had been the instance in which Leonard had attempted to bake scones and Spock had attempted to get them out of the oven while they had actively been on fire. Though ‘successful’ was not an entirely specific word. His husband had baked several items that were, in a literal sense, edible. He had accurately mixed a batter only to hopelessly burn the result, he had _inaccurately_ mixed a batter only to precisely bake it. There had been the time that he had filled the house with the most pleasing smell of indigestible bread, the time everything had seemed to align until the moment, with horrified tastebuds, Spock had inferred that McCoy had mistaken salt for the called for sugar, and the time that only half their dinner guests got sick from eating his cake. When using small measurements, ‘successful,’ could indeed be distorted to suit one’s needs.

“I do not remember disagreeing with you on the subject.”

“Coming from a man with no taste like yourself, an insult may as well be a compliment,” proving once again that the only thing that irritates the former Doctor more than arguing with him is Spock refusing to.

“‘Taste,’ in this context, is subjective,” the Vulcan’s voice floating upwards with the corner of his mouth.

Leonard approaches him, his frown giving way to the beginnings of a smile as flour covered hands reach for the front of Spock’s shirt, holding him in place. “I don’t know about that, dear, but my sanity sure is up for review, what with me putting up with you for all these years,” even as he leaned in to press his lips against the Vulcan’s own. “And since I’ve been such a generous man, absolving you of all your crimes against peaches, I assume that you can find it in that little green heart of yours to take over market delivery for the day so I can get this thing ready for proper devouring before Joanna's arrival tomorrow."

Spock kisses him back, getting his affections in, before disrupting them with, “I do not remember confessing any wrongdoings.”

“That’s just how forgiving of a man I am,” even as the human shoves him away to return to his ill-fated project. “I’m willing to forgive your idiocy before you’ll even admit that you’re wrong, and you _are_ wrong.”

A pointed look accentuates the Vulcan’s reply of, “When I am in town I will notify the Vatican of your self-alloted status of sainthood,” as Spock removes the keys off of the hook on the wall.

His husband is too busy trying to turn a laugh into a scowl to respond and Spock takes that as a cue to leave before things devolve any further. His hand reaches out to Leonard's bare forearm as he walks by, allowing his shields to yield to the bond as he conveys his adoration in an unspoken way, warm and shining. McCoy’s mind careens into his, the bright tenderness still overwhelming after all of these years.

Spock makes it to the door, hand on the knob, as he turns back in a way he hopes will appear casual. Asking, in feigned spontaneity, “I did not get a chance to ask you, what, exactly, are you attempting to concoct?”

Eyebrows come together, suspicion growing on the human’s face. “Double crust peach pie.” Then slowly, “Why, you hankering for something to look forward to?”

“I simply desire to be thorough on the insurance claims when you ignite the kitchen and, possibly, yourself.”

Spock leaves to the sound of yelling and a sharp noise, likely one of their silicone utensils being hurled at the door, following his exit. He returns, a few hours later, to a still standing house and a pie that manages to be, quite fascinatingly, both raw and burnt at the same time.

Leonard does not even fake a surprise when the Vulcan presents a fully, correctly, baked double crust peach pie that he had purchased from the bakery in town.

“It’s gotta be the oven. Things hotter than a hellhound’s asshole at the back but the front barely gets warmer than a penguin’s toenail. It ain’t my fault that we’re falling apart here,” was the human’s newest excuse to which Spock, smartly, gave no response. “It’s too bad, too. This one was going to knock your socks clear off to Florida. Nothing makes a man fall in love quite like a Georgia peach pie.”

Spock takes a pause from his pan scrubbing to allow his fingers to roam the crests of Leonard’s still battered knuckles where his arms tightly cross over his chest. A smile is allowed to form in the line of Vulcan’s mouth as his gaze traces from pink frowning lips to sparkling blue eyes, rich with annoyance and amusement alike.

“I shall take your word for it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks time!
> 
> To the Mods for figuring out this entire exchange so the rest of us can get kick back and enjoy it.  
> To [GatewayGeek](https://gatewaygeek.tumblr.com/) for the prompt (hopefully it lives up to you expectations... I definitely took liberties).  
> To the ever patient Caitlyn for beta'ing this for me.  
> And to [Pageling](https://cat-and-the-fiddle.tumblr.com/) and [Perphesone](https://perphesone.tumblr.com/) for being my scream into the night set of cheerleaders.
> 
> You're all super stars without which I would likely have of imploded.
> 
> Until next time you can find me at [GrumpyBones](https://grumpybonesey.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. LLAP!


End file.
